


The Stolen Genie

by Crumbledown (VerbtheAdjectiveNoun)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bisexual John, Butt Plugs, First Time, Genie - Freeform, Genie Sherlock, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Petty Theft, Sexual Humor, bicurious, gay porn, military uniform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerbtheAdjectiveNoun/pseuds/Crumbledown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, in all of his boredom, steals an antique. And then he buys some porn. And then? And then he meets the genie of the lamp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always forget to do this. As always, this is totes a work of fiction, nothing belongs to me, not Sherlock, not John Watson, not Aladdin, not nothin. Nothin' I tells ya. The original characters belong to A.C. Doyle, and the adaptation I'm borrowing these characters from is the brain baby of Moffat and Gatiss.

The lamp was ancient, a relic. Something out of Aladdin. How did something like this even get the title of ‘lamp’? Lamps were meant to emit light, weren’t they? John smiled wanly at the ancient shopkeeper.

He was bored. Month after month of long, agonising waiting and silence... and then seconds, hours, sometimes days of full adrenaline; run and grab someone, stitches, gunpowder, blood, yelling and screaming for order while keeping a cool-head amidst the constant thrum of fear deep in his chest. And then he’d been bloody shot.

London was exactly the same as it’d ever been, but it felt as strange and foreign as Afghanistan had in the first few days; only he’d been in London for several weeks and still struggled to find his bearings. The weeks and months of silence on edge, the days or seconds of gunfire and insanity meant his guard could never be down. It followed him ‘home’ to London. The squeal of breaks could fall like a bomb, someone tripping on the sidewalk was a landmine detonating, a person shoulder-barging his injury was being shot all over again. Constant vigilance only led to fatigue... and boredom.

There was no price tag on the lamp. The little old man minding the shop was busying himself with a kettle on a hotplate behind the counter. For no reason he could excuse, John slipped the lamp into his jacket and said a quick, “Thank you,” as he left the antique store.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he walked to his tiny bed-sit, shame eating at his gut as surely as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. He was a bloody army doctor, what was he doing? Stealing from a little old man’s shop, and it was something he hadn’t even liked, something he wasn’t even sure what it was. He certainly had no use for it, it would look ridiculous sitting on his empty desk. A police officer was walking toward him on the walkway and the lamp burnt inexplicably hot as John smiled nervously at him, feeling suspicious. _Stop, John._ He panicked and swerved into a random shop to avoid making eye-contact with the police officer again. The lamp was almost searing him; whether he was imagining it or not, he couldn’t tell.

But it got worse. A young man in a purple shirt leaned against a crowded counter, looking bored as hell. He barely looked up when John entered the store looking panicked and nervous.  But it probably wasn’t as rare a sight as most would imagine, for this retail worker. At least once every few weeks a middle aged man walked through the doors of this store after days, sometimes fucking years of debilitating self consciousness and self loathing as to whether they could actually go through with it. The ghosts of every other customer followed John into the store, and his face was nearly indistinguishable of a million other nervous men stepping foot inside for the first time.

Dicks. So. Many. Dicks. DVD’s, magazines; dicks sculpted out of silicon and glass and metal, tiny and mid –sized and massive, cock-rings and whips and a billion other miscellanea John could only guess at.

John had, like so many before him, been contemplating wandering into a shop like for quite some time. He’d walked in on two of his comrades in flagrante while in Afghanistan and couldn’t get rid of the resulting erection and confusion and frustration for a very long time. Even thinking about seeing their tanned, hard bodies covered in hair and sweat slamming together gave him a thrill up his back and an ache in his groin, months and months later. _It was just the act, not the bodies. Walking in on anyone having sex could summon those empathetic throbs and arousal_ , he convinced himself.

And there he fucking was. A thief trying to not draw attention to himself by wandering into a gay sex store.  He would only be more conspicuous to the police officer and the young lad behind the counter if he were to just head straight back out into the street. The cop probably hadn’t even walked by the door yet. Man pops into gay sex store after smiling at a cop, pops back out after half a second looking like a stunned mullet, right into the path of said police officer. _Yeah, no._

John took a few tentative steps in and pretended to browse. But no, for real, he was browsing and seriously considered a few items that seemed... intriguing. The thought of his brothers-in-arms being lovers-in-arms stirred him again as a DVD cover leapt out of him, two young things in skimpy army fatigues. They looked remarkably like the men he knew...

John cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder, in an exact replication as he did before stealing the lamp (still in his jacket), as he picked up the porno. He silently thanked God that the police officer didn’t charge right in and arrest him for theft and public indecency (despite being completely clothed, he felt excruciatingly exposed. The burning on his ears and neck somehow felt like a broadcast to the business going on in his trousers.) He started toward the counter and the young man in the purple shirt when something else caught his attention. It was tiny. The length of his thumb and only slightly wider at its thickest part. Purple, like the bloke’s shirt, and with a little flared end. Before he could lose his nerve, he picked that up too.

The young man (good Lord, he was barely old enough to work there) didn’t even look at John as he rang up his purchases.

“Lube?  Toy cleaner? Condoms?” the boy asked, as though they were totally normal questions.

“Urm... yeah.”

“Brand?”

“Uh...”

Sensing John’s hesitation and anal-masturbation-virginity, the boy rolled his eyes and sighed as he grabbed three items off the shelf.

“This lube is water based. Your toy is silicone. It’s a good silicone, but don’t keep it with other toys,” he said quickly in a monotone, set the items on the counter, and kept reading his magazine.

 John had to bite back a nervous ‘I don’t have any others!’ despite the boy probably already knowing this.

“Don’t use silicone lube on your silicone toy. This lube is different from what you’d use with a woman. Not designed to slip and slide all over the place, but stay put. It’s slippery but thicker. The other bottle is toy cleaner. Once you’re done with the toy, give it a wash with hot water and soap, then spray it with this. It’s silicone and body-safe disinfectant. Those are condoms, you put ‘em on your dick, or on your toy, or on your fist, or round your bloody head, I don’t care. That’s about it. ” All the while flipping through a well-dog eared magazine, featuring several men with impressive erections on and/or in them. John’s face burned horrifically, nearly as much as the contraband in his jacket was burning him through his shirt, as he fumbled with his wallet to pay for the porn, butt plug, lube, toy cleaner, and condoms he could hardly believe he was purchasing.

He’d gone out for milk. He really had. And before he even got to the shop, he went for a wander and stole a bloody lamp that he didn’t want and bought gay porn that reminded him of the army and a butt plug and lube and toy cleaner that he tried telling himself for a very long time before even getting _shot_ that he didn’t want. He spent more on god damn sex toys than what he would have spent on the fucking lamp that wouldn’t stop burning him.

He made it to his bedsit without incident, and without milk. The brown paper bag the adult store provided for salacious purchases was indiscrete, but every person he encountered on the walk home somehow _knew_ there was a DVD featuring two incredibly fit blokes getting it on while wearing flimsy costumes that bordered on offensive just on principal. These strangers knew he’d probably end up jacking off with a purple bit of plastic up his arse while watching a mockery of his former career.

The lamp was almost forgotten. But the moment John worried himself with his identity crisis, the lamp would let off a strange pulse of heat. How dare John forget it. How dare he forget that he fucking stole a god damn antique from an old man who was probably gonna die in the next few years (judging from the nasty coughing fit John witnessed shortly after entering the store.)

He was so hard when he got in the door, he burned and pressed against his zip. He practiced extreme diligence in unzipping himself.

He hadn’t even taken his jacket off or set down his lawfully and unlawfully gotten gains on his tiny desk before his cock was out. Just for some air. Relieve some of the pressure. He walked around the bedsit (he couldn’t call it home) with his cock out, staring at his items once lain in chronological order of ownership on the desk. Lamp, porn, plug, lube, cleaner, condoms.

He stripped down to nothing but his socks.

He definitely wouldn’t watch the porn, he told himself as he put the disk in his laptop.

He definitely wouldn’t jerk off using his new fancy fucking anal lube while watching said porn, he told himself as he gripped his wet cock as his laptop screen shouted silently _ARMY TWINKS 7._

He definitely was going to maintain some dignity, he told himself as he got a leg cramp trying to find a way to reach his arsehole while sitting on a desk chair, jerk off, and watch gay porn for the first time.

He definitely was going to forget about the lamp, he actually managed.

Until his prostate got a slight little brush from an intrusive little toy, the men on screen were still only just kissing and were mostly clothed in flimsy camouflage, the lube was amazing, and rockets of cum landed on the forgotten lamp, which actually shook with the force of landing. But then it continued to shake, and rattle, and the porn on the laptop was ignored while John rode out the last convulsions of his orgasms, watching the lamp shake and shake and roll off the table.

What the fuck... the lamp continued to rattle and shake on the floor angrily.

Yeah, of course John had to steal a lamp with a fucking mouse or rat living in it, what the hell.

With his cock and balls and somehow, socks, still covered in his sticky mess, he leaned over on his chair carefully and tapped on the lamp, trying to scare out whatever was living inside of it, but it went completely still.  _Strange..._ He picked it up and as he wiped his cum off the lamp with his fingers, and a bright flash violently erupted from it.

John fell from the chair and landed hard on his arse, which jammed the plug against his prostate with more force than he could handle. He threw himself backwards on the floor and arched his good shoulder against it as he lifted his hips up, shoving his hands under his arse to fumble the plug out, oh fuck it hurt! Oh god his bedsit could be on fire but he’d deal with that after he got that fucking thing out of his arse... His fingers were half way in and tears flooded his eyes until he realised...

Someone stood above him. Well.  Not stood. John was suddenly very aware that there was an awful lot of smoke, or mist hovering a few centimetres from the ground, instead of feet planted firmly on the floor.  He slowly looked up from the mist, and couldn’t help his jaw from dropping, his fingers slipped awkwardly around his hole.

A man standing, no, hovering, in the tiny room.  When John tried looking at his face it was obscured in darkness, the bedsit light behind him highlighted his careful curls and obscured any details by the brightness of the halo it provided.

So there was John. Totally naked and whimpering, his fingers digging desperately inside himself trying to dislodge a tiny purple butt plug shoved too far up his arse, cum all over himself,  gay porn only just starting on his laptop (fucks sakes they had only unbuttoned their fake fatigues), with some hovering stranger probably staring at him from above.

“I suppose the introduction can wait,” a deep, rumbling voice muttered. Hot, burning shame crawled up John’s back like a monkey with a knife between its teeth. But then sweet, sweet alleviation overcame him as the plug disappeared from his aching arse, leaving him spasming on the floor in relief. He took his fingers away from his behind and clawed at the carpet at the incredible sensation of being plug and finger free completely.

“What the fuuuuuuuuuck,” John cried as he wiggled himself sitting up against the furthest wall possible from the stranger.  Fear and embarrassment gripped John tightly as the stranger continued to just hover there.

_HOVER. How??_

John covered his groin with his sticky hands as he cowered against the wall. Moving away from the man and against the wall, he could finally see the stranger’s face. He was, in a word, gorgeous. In two? Fucking gorgeous. In three? A bit alien...

His face was long and his incredible silver eyes were wide-set... his cheekbones were nearly as sharp as his cupid’s bow, and that was truly saying something. His dark curly hair lay either carefully or carelessly over his brow- it was impossible to tell. His clothes belonged in a Victorian era movie, his shirt was intentionally flimsy, flowing and open at the neck and collar, and he wore an unbuttoned and dark grey coat over top.  He hovered there patiently, an eyebrow cocked in either amusement or derision as John gathered himself. John’s arsehole spasmed weakly in protest of all its recent traumas and embarrassments.

“I think this is one of the most... unique... introductions I’ve ever had... and I’ve been at this for a while,” mused the stranger in that incredible voice.

“Who, what are you?” John finally managed after a few moments of stuttering.

The stranger rolled his eyes, “I think that’s obvious. Use your eyes.”

“You’re... you’re a genie?” The disbelieve was evident.

“And you are a gay war hero who won’t reach out to his brother for assistance after being invalided... but I’m missing something.” He squatted down to make eyelevel with John, his bum appearing to rest on the mist floating about where his feet and shins should have been. His hands came to rest in a prayer position against his bottom lip, and he stared at John. Hard.

“I... I...” John stuttered as he backed himself further away from the genie and into the corner of the room, knowing foolishly that he was only trapping himself if the genie happened to turn violent or malicious.

“I’m not gay.” John’s mouth moved on its own accord.

The genie raised his brow and smirked.

“No?” he asked, clearly amused. Thinking he’s clever.

“No, I’m not bloody gay!” John shouted furious. He was on his feet and how the hell did that happen? He nearly vibrated in anger, shame, violation... he clasped his hands in front of his genitals again, nearly forgetting his nudity.

“Of course you are, look at the porn on that scre... oh. Oh!” The genie clapped his hands as he leapt up.

“You’re experimenting. No, not gay. Bisexual. And only recently realised. Look how far into this scene you’d gotten before ejaculating on my lamp! They’d barely even touched and you were off like a shot. And this plug is tiny, obviously a beginner. Well. Congratulations, I guess. Though next time, try something with a larger flare, this is only going to give you more pain than pleasure if you lose it in there again.”

Well. That was... “Extraordinary... how did you know about the war?”

“Tan lines. Haircut. Scar. Porn choice. Easy.” The genie shrugged, looking pleased with himself like a cat with a mouse.

“You mentioned a brother.”

“The device next to the screen here,” he picked up John’s mobile phone and tossed it, flipping into the air and caught it with ease. “This device is obviously more than you can afford, given the state of the room we’re in and the relative flashy-ness of it compared to your porn machine. It has scuff marks on it, and an inscription. Your porn machine is obviously older but immaculate. This thing is new, and already with scuff marks? Look at your bed, it’s still military. You wouldn’t treat a luxury item like this with so little care that it would become scuffed so quickly. And the inscription tells me, To Harry, xxx Clara. Harry, brother, Clara is his EX partner, clearly, as Harry has now passed the phone on to you. Harry, of course, was the one to end it. Maybe that’s why you won’t go to him?”

John’s jaw had dropped long ago. “Wow. I mean, you’re right, almost absolutely right.”

“Almost? No, I’m absolutely right!” the strange, (all-seeing? perhaps.) genie pouted.

“No, almost. Almost exactly right.” John smiled, nearly forgetting his nudity and embarrassment and fear.

“What did I get wrong?” “What’s your name?” both men asked at the same time. They stood with their mouths a bit open, unsure as to whose turn it was to speak.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I’m the genie of the lamp.”

“Harry is my sister.”

“Damn. There were two things.”

“So, you mean to say, you’re a genie. I mean, I know I guessed it earlier, but... you’re an actual genie?” John’s shock gave way with a tiny nudge, like a jenga tower falling to pieces.

“Yes. I’ll grant you three, well, two, wishes.”

“What? But you just said three!” John argued.

“Well, you clearly wished for the plug to get out of your arse, so that’s one wish down.”

“Did I say it out loud? Did I explicitly ask you, ‘Sherlock, please get this plug out of my arse?’” John demanded to know.

“Well... fine. Three wishes. My last _master_ made me watch that movie, Aladdin? Is that still relevant?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, I was just thinking your lamp loo-“

Sherlock interrupted him, “Yes, well same rules apply to me as they did that genie. God, I could have done with that bloody film for the last millennia or so but I suppose it’s better late than never. Do you know how tiring it gets to just repeat yourself over and over and over every time...”

“Not big on ‘Hi, how are you?’ then?”

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Boring. Now, unless you have a wish or something, I’m going back in my lamp. Just... try not to get any more bodily fluids on it? Please? I do live in here.” As he spoke, the mist about his legs swirled into the lamp, sucking his legs, hips, torso, shoulders and finally, head, into the tiny spout. And Sherlock was gone.

“Just be glad I didn’t think it was a kettle,” muttered John.  The lamp rattled as though to say, ‘ _I heard that.’_

Without the strange, and devastatingly gorgeous Sherlock-the-Genie in the room, John wondered if he was perhaps going a little crazy. He’d nearly forgotten his nudity. The pain in his arse still throbbed a little, but he was no longer in the excruciating pain he was in before.

Right. He was going to have a shower and go to bed. He closed the porn (the two very familiar looking porn stars were now properly fucking, and despite himself John’s cock gave a little twitch- shouldn’t have been possible, really, he wasn’t 18 anymore...) and hesitated when picking up the lamp. He went the safe route and spoke out loud, announcing his intentions to pick the thing off the ground, clean it properly with a towel and then shower and go to bed himself. When the damp paper towel made contact with the lamp, Sherlock did not appear.  This did not do much to satisfy John that he hadn’t just thought the whole thing up.

Never the less, after his shower and crawling into bed, he found himself saying to the empty room. “Good night, Sherlock.” A phosphorus green glow came from the tip of the lamp, so dim that John nearly didn’t see it before closing his eyes.

That night, he dreamt of the sex store- only Sherlock was the worker in a tight purple shirt, and he was giving John a very in depth analysis on exactly what his porn choices said about his character.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in a bit of denial that there is a Genie living in a lamp. He is also in a bit of denial about what a Genie may have to offer him. Sherlock discovers Wikipedia.

 

The moment John woke up, his eyes fell on the lamp. Grey light filtered through the tiny window and cast his few possessions in a sad monochrome... but the lamp was resistant, resilient. John just lay on his side for a few minutes, admiring it from across the small room. It was gold and a little shinier than he remembered. He thought he could hear a gentle hum from it, but he also thought that perhaps he’d just imagined the whole thing. _A genie named Sherlock? Please._

He pulled himself out of bed, his arse was still a little sore from the previous night. _Well, that’s to be expected. I don’t usually shove things in there._

As he brushed his teeth, he pointed the bathroom cabinet mirror to reflect his desk... the lamp sat there, waiting. He rested his morning erection on the lip of the sink as he shaved. He rocked back and forth against it a little bit, and glanced at the lamp. _Fuck it._

When John stripped off and hopped into the hot (but rather pathetic) shower, he left the door open after re-angling the mirror once more. He touched himself occasionally as he washed his hair, washed his face and body. He winced a little as he made contact with his arsehole, still slightly damp with excess lubricant. That shop boy hadn't lied, it stayed PUT. He continued to rub gently at his poor little hole with the pad of his finger, and his erection bobbed and throbbed under the weak spray of the shower. He stared at the lamp intently as he took himself in hand and thrust into his fist. Was Sherlock even real? Was he just tossing off to an antique lamp?

Yet he pushed his finger gently inside his arse, and hissed at the tenderness. Maybe the finger wasn’t such a good idea, not so soon after... trauma. Yet the finger remained, the burn only egging his erection on. John’s eyes became unfocused as he stared at the lamp, biting his lip as he stroked his cock and wiggled his finger gently in his arse. _Oh shit, shit, shit. Those lips, those eyes, that hair, that voice, fuck. I wish... fuck. That purple shirt... the white shirt... fucking ruin them, just cum all over. Fuck._ John was insensate with disjointed fantasies, staring at a goddamn antique lamp.

He came hard as his finger wiggled a bit more vigorously than perhaps was comfortable, but fuck, oh fuck, it was amazing. He moaned through his orgasm and his knees threatened to give as his bollocks unloaded. His cum spattered the shower wall damningly. He shivered as he withdrew his finger and washed his hands. He tried to aim the shower head at the cum on the wall, but the spray was too weak to actually do any good. John spent a few minutes filling his hands with water and splashing it ineffectually at the wall. He gave up and used his flannel instead.

When he stepped out of the bathroom in his robe and a towel around his shoulders, Sherlock was lounging on his bed with John’s computer on his lap.  John nearly jumped out of his skin.

“I hope your penis is sufficiently clean. What is this thing? It looks like that television I watched Aladdin on, but it’s so much more _useful._ I figured out how to close the porn and-“ Sherlock started, but was abruptly cut off by the laptop being snatched away from him and plopped onto the small desk.

“You... I mean...” John sat gingerly on his chair, staring at the genie. He was wearing a purple shirt.

His words suddenly sunk in. _I hope your penis is sufficiently clean._ _Oh god._ John cradled his face in his hands. Sherlock knew. And John had been leering at his lamp like some sort of lamp-fetishist.

“Honestly... er... what’s your name?” Sherlock asked before interrupting himself, “No, nevermind, don’t tell me. You won’t be my master for terribly long, not worth me memorising it. But honestly, I could practically _hear_ your second wish from inside my lamp. You make it so obvious.”

“What makes you think I’m going to make my wishes so quickly that my name doesn’t matter? And what do you mean, SECOND wish?” John mumbled into his hands, too mortified to get properly angry.

“Well you’ve made the first one already-“

“What? When?”  John interrupted, finally getting annoyed.

“Last night, with the plug.” Sherlock said.

“I never wished for you to remove it, we went over this.”

“Boring. I must have erased it.”

“Erased what?”

“I don’t know, what are we talking about?” Sherlock propelled himself from John’s bed in a fluid leap, but his descent was far too slow for him to be actively participating with the laws of gravity. And he never quite landed, his non-existent feet just ended in that same mysterious mist.

“My name isn’t important enough for you to learn and that you keep trying to take away one of my wishes.” John said.

“Well, I’m glad we agree on something, your name _isn’t_ important.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily as he strode (yet not make contact with the ground) towards John, hovering at a height that must have been quite dizzying. He snatched back the computer and sat on what might have been an invisible chair.

“Tell me about this thing. What’s it’s purpose?” Sherlock delicately touched a few of the buttons on the keyboard.

“It’s... actually, no. I won’t tell you. Not until you ask and _remember_ my name, Sherlock. Then I’ll show you how it works.” John compromised.

“Fine. What’s your name, John?” Sherlock asked dryly.

“My name is J... how did you already know it? And why did you say it wasn’t important if you already knew?” John sputtered.

“I read it. You have a certificate in one of your desk drawers; you’re a doctor. I deemed it unimportant, so I ignored it until pressed, John H. Watson.” Sherlock said.

“You went through my drawers?”

“You were tossing off and not making any wishes, and I can only come out of my lamp when I have a master. You think after 23 years I’m going to just stay in that thing ALL the time? Mind you, it was a much shorter time between masters this time than last time, God, the agony of being trapped in there, the BORING tedium... Say, that gun isn’t registered, is it?”

John felt a twinge of sympathy for Sherlock, until the non-sequitur jolted him.

“Don’t touch that gun. Don’t even THINK of touching that gun. I don’t want you to talk about it or think about it, no.”

“Is that a wish?” Sherlock asked, looking displeased.

John shook his head, “No, Sherlock. That is not a wish, it is a request from one man to ano... from one being to another. Please.”

“If you’re worried I’m going to shoot you John, don’t forget what I’ve just told you. I can only come out while I have a master, and though my time out of the lamp tends to be cut all too short for my own liking, due to the rather impulsive nature of humans and not thinking through their true desires, I rather enjoy not being cooped up in there.” Sherlock said plainly. Well.

John paused and rubbed his chin. Sherlock sat in mid air, prodding gently at the unfamiliar technology in his lap.

“So... how long did your last master ... uh... keep? You?” John winced at his awkward wording. Obviously, one does not KEEP a genie, but he couldn’t think of how else to word it.

“I was in his servitude for just under a month.” Sherlock continued, “And before you ask, I would say the shortest amount of time I’ve been mastered is about 15 minutes, and the longest was the aforementioned three and a half weeks. I don’t know how many masters I’ve had, very few of them were worth remembering. Most common wish is money, the most stupid wish is money, easiest wish is money, now show me how this thing works.” Sherlock rattled off at high speed.

John could only smile. He showed Sherlock the very basics, and once Sherlock started to experiment and actually corrected John once or twice, John left him to his own devices. He was out of milk. He wouldn’t get distracted this time. Sherlock waved him off in favour of pursuing Wikipedia.

“How much could London have changed? I can wait to see it if you’re determined to ‘keep me.’ Look, this page about the fire is obviously wrong, I need to fix it. It could take hours.” Sherlock pointed accusingly at one of the several tabs he had open.

“Which fire?” John asked.

“The Great Fire of London, of course. Surely they would appreciate a first-hand account on this subject.”

“Right. Okay. Well, I’m going now... do you maybe, need anything?” John asked. Foolishly.

Suddenly, much to John’s astonishment, ten cartons of eggs appeared on his tiny desk.

“Go on.” Sherlock nodded at the desk as he continued to type at an amazing speed.

John opened one of the cartons and there were 12 brown hens eggs sitting innocently inside. He glanced over at Sherlock and picked one up... and dropped it. It splatted against his desk, but instead of white and yolk...

“Sherlock, was this egg full of milk?” John asked incredulously.

In response, the other 9 cartons of eggs flew open. In rapid concession, all 119 eggs floated out and above John’s head. He stared, gobsmacked as each egg burst open with confetti, splashes of milk, and blue sparks. The room was full of cracking eggs with not a yolk to be seen, and John burst into laughter.

“Amazing, this is incredible!” He laughed as an egg dumped a load of purple confetti over his head. Amongst all the chaos, the carpet remained immaculate- the debris disappeared before it even reached his knees!

“No, I don’t need anything.” Sherlock said, still totally engrossed with the laptop. The empty shells of the eggs floated up to the ceiling, where they turned into tiny, hazy mists, and disappeared.

“Technically, you might not ever need anything again, John. I think you’d do well to really think about what you want.”

 _Whatever you can give me._ It was hardly the answer John was going to give Sherlock, but it was all he could think of as he walked to the shops.

He pretended not to notice the little antique store he stole Sherlock from as he walked by, but felt a sharp prickle on the back of his neck as a pair of dark eyes watched him from the dusty window.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where this is going! Just FYI! A total work in progress and I'm just updating about 20 seconds after I'm done writing and editing. This is just a bit of fun and any and all mistakes belong to me. You know what doesn't belong to me? The characters or any Disney movies that may be mentioned. And sorry this is so dialogue heavy. I'm just going 'PAH' at the screen and hoping for something that makes a little sense. pffft.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in AGES, I have been working on my novel for the last forever and I just needed something silly and lighthearted. I'm not sure where this is going, it's probably just going to be really short. I don't have a beta right now so all errors and inaccuracies and jazz are totally and completely mine.


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